Special Delivery
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl AU. Oneshot. Carol owns a trucking company and she needs a driver for a very special delivery. Carol/Daryl Rated for language.


**AN: So this tumblr prompt wanted Carol and Daryl as boss/intern. I have to say that I took that and I tweaked it to be boss/employee because that was the best that I could do. I came up with this and I hope that it's at least something like what the requester had in mind!**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol was frustrated enough that she had to fight against the urge to throw something in her office. She was normally able to hold back such extreme emotions, but sometimes it just got to be too much. It was especially too much when she was running the risk of letting down clients.

Her trucking company was small. It was almost entirely made up of independent drivers, though she was working to grow to a size that would allow her to fully employ each of the people who drove for her. But her reputation was good. It was good and it got better every day. It got better with every delivery made on time and with every delivery made in good condition.

It had never been her dream to head up this kind of company—the opportunity had fallen into her lap in an odd sort of way when she'd been looking for work and an old friend had helped her out. As the years had ticked past? She'd gone from helping him to taking over. And then? She'd gone from the really small company that he'd run into the growing company that she ran—and she wanted to get bigger and better. She knew she could.

But in order for a trucking company to grow? She had to be able to depend on her employees, even if they were independent truckers who worked for her on pay-as-you-work contracts.

And today? Today Carol did not have the time or the patience to dick around with Merle Dixon. She'd told him as much on the phone, but she didn't know if he'd gotten the message or not.

Merle was her best long range driver. He might have been the best anywhere. He could be counted on—as long as it was long range and as long as he knew well in advance what was expected of him. He had, from what Carol knew, though her knowledge of his personal life was limited, no real commitments or duties. He was married to his truck—properly named "Boss Bitch's Nightmare"—and he was content to spend however many days that he had to spend on the road getting something to someone who was expecting it.

But when it came to short distance runs? He was hit or miss. Today Carol needed him to be on. Today she needed him to be working with her. She had a delivery, last minute, that needed to be picked up and delivered to a location four hours away and there was only a seven hour window.

The company that needed the delivery, though, was a large one. It was the kind of company that could very well, if they were happy with her services, put Carol in a position to take her own little company to the next level.

But this delivery had to go out and it needed to go out right now.

Carol would do it herself, too, if she had the means but she didn't. Part of having independent truckers meant that they had their own rigs. She gave them a job and she gave them pay, but they provided their trucks. Getting this company on her side? Getting a contract for numerous jobs from them? It might put her in a position to have trucks of her own. But at the moment? She had no rig.

She couldn't have driven it if she did.

She could manage a business and she could deal with truckers—at times a breed unto their own—but she'd never learned to drive one of the machines. The most she'd ever done in a truck, besides crawling up to give some instructions, was to ride shotgun with a new driver that needed someone to show them the ropes of the loading and unloading—someone who wasn't used to how things worked yet and needed a little guidance.

Today everyone that worked for her and could be reached was out or otherwise employed by someone else. She needed Merle Dixon. He was the only one that seemed to be permanently available—at least with enough warning. There hadn't been enough warning this time, though, and Carol was almost driven to being frantic by the feeling of the moments ticking away and the job sliding right out of her hands—and taking her reputation with it.

So when she saw "Boss Bitch's Nightmare" pull into her parking area and heard the sound of the brakes, Carol almost flew out the door with the intention of kissing Merle like he'd probably never been kissed before—at least by the likes of Carol McAlister.

She rushed out, toward the truck, but she was surprised that, instead of Merle, someone else dropped out of the cab of the truck and came walking toward her with a slight saunter to his steps.

Carol shaded her eyes with her hand. She was confused. It was Merle's rig. Nobody else drove a truck quite like it. It was his pride and joy. He'd never let anyone else drive it. He didn't even want them touching it.

"Who are you?!" Carol called out across the otherwise empty lot. "And what are you doing in Merle's truck?"

The man walking toward her seemed amused. The sound of somewhat muffled laughter hit Carol before anything else. His words trotted closely after.

"Daryl," the man called. "And I'm your new driver. Merle let me borrow the truck."

They stopped, one right in front of the other.

"Are you licensed?" Carol asked.

He hummed in the affirmative.

"But you haven't driven for me before?" She asked.

A hum in the negative.

"Have you ever driven before?" Carol asked.

"Driven a truck," Daryl said. "Driven double with Merle plenty of times. For you too. Never gone solo."

Carol frowned. It wasn't ideal. Not a job this important. Someone's first solo run? She had no doubt that he could do it, and she'd have given him a job in an instant most of the time, but this was a really important delivery. It was almost too important to take the risk.

But then, moments before, she'd been considering trying to do it herself and that would've involved stealing a truck and driving without a license—all of which would have landed her in jail as quick as it would have landed her a big and long-term contract.

Beggars, they say, can't be choosers.

Daryl, apparently, could read her mind. He raised his eyebrows and patted his pocket so that the keys there jingled.

"Take it or leave it, lady," Daryl said. "Heard your message. Heard you was in a tight spot. Merle's passed out drunk. Ain't goin' nowhere today."

Carol considered it a moment. It was such a risk to just leave this in Daryl's hands—capable though they likely were. But she needed someone who could haul this load, and she needed them to hit the road quick or it was a moot point.

"I need to just—make a call and lock up," Carol said.

"Lock up?" Daryl asked. "Why?"

"I'm coming with you," Carol called back at him. She didn't wait for his response. She was the boss. She made the rules. Mac could take over answering the phones for the day.

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl found Carol McAlister rather amusing. He had never laid eyes on her that he knew. He'd ridden with Merle a time or two, but he'd always been "picked up" at some location or another. Merle tended to have time left over on his clock and was never bothered by finding Daryl to take him along with him. For that reason, Daryl had never actually seen the woman whose voice he'd heard over the radio more than once giving some instruction or another.

But even if he had seen her? Now he knew he wouldn't have known who she was.

A woman who owned a trucking company? Even as small as her little company was, he had a certain image for that kind of woman. Any woman who could manage a handful of truckers, more maybe, and could deal with them on a day in and day out basis had to be a certain way.

He figured she'd be, essentially, a brassy broad. She'd probably be a big lady—muscular if nothing else—and she'd be less attractive than the ass of a bulldog. After all, that's what she'd have to look like to keep them from harassing her about her tits and ass for hours on end. She'd have to have the personality of that same bulldog, too, to keep them from trying to run over her ass.

Her voice had sounded pretty soft and sweet over the radio, but voices meant nothing. Daryl had once met a woman who claimed to be one of those telephone sex people, and though she had the voice for it? He could immediately tell why it was she wasn't on video porn. Voices were hard to go by.

And even though Merle called her a "sweet lil' thang" and made all kind of innuendo about her, that didn't tell Daryl a damn thing either. Some of the women that Merle had bedded in the years they'd lived together were bad enough that Daryl almost wanted to cut his own dick off for knowing that they'd been fucked in some vicinity to him—even it wasn't him that was guilty of such an act.

But Carol McAlister?

She was thin, delicately built, pretty, and soft spoken. The only harsh words he'd heard come out of her mouth so far were the ones that she'd shared with their answering machine because Merle wouldn't answer the phone. She even smelled nice—a floral scent that was a welcome relief to the otherwise strange odor of the cab of the truck.

And once they were on the road? Their load picked up and ready to go—a job that she'd handled—she'd sat over on the passenger seat and directed him with the same enthusiasm that a child might use if they were giving someone directions to Disneyland.

But simply for her position, and for the fact that she'd held it so long, working with the likes of Merle, let Daryl know that there was something about Carol McAlister. She had some kind of spunk.

And he had a feeling—he didn't want to be on her bad side.

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111

The hum of the engine and the slight vibration that rumbled through her body from the power of that engine was nothing in comparison to the vibration that her excitement brought. Carol looked out the window of the truck as they made their way back on the return trip and she could barely contain herself—now for a very different reason than her mood of the morning.

Daryl Dixon had come through. They'd made the delivery, safe and sound and on time, and Carol could feel it in her veins that she was going to hear back from them. She was going to get more contracts. Better ones. Her reputation was going to be so much better now. It was all about who you knew. It was about who you'd impressed.

And she needed this. She needed this business. She needed it to be a success. Since she'd taken it over for Mac, and even before, it had been her only source of income. Now it was a source of pride. It was her independence. It was her proof, after a marriage gone bad, that her asshole husband was a liar as well. She didn't need him. She'd never needed him. She needed him less now. The business gave her that confidence and it gave her that freedom.

Daryl Dixon had saved her ass.

She glanced over at him. He drove like he'd been doing it all his life, even if he said that he'd done no solo runs. Despite the fact that he smoked while he drove, often filling his lap with ashes that he brushed out later with the same absentminded actions that he might use to brush hair out of his eyes, he had total concentration on the road. He seemed like the kind of man who never noticed anything beyond the task at hand.

He was ruggedly handsome and perhaps a little better "preserved" than some of the men who drove for her. He didn't look like he'd succumbed to so many of the rough "after hours" entertainment that had put lines on the leathered faces of a good number of her drivers—even the ones who barely seemed old enough to be away from their mothers for the extended amount of time that they were on runs.

And he was, apparently, some kind of guardian angel for Carol—a guardian angel with 18 wheels.

He glanced quickly over at her, like he felt her staring at him, and she smiled and felt her cheeks grow warm before she turned away and studied the landscape again.

He was quiet. He'd barely spoken beyond necessary words for the entire trip, so when he spoke, his voice almost made her jump.

"You're grinnin' like a damn mule eatin' briars," he said. "What's got you so damn happy about dropping a load?"

Carol smiled to herself.

"It was a big order," she said. "A really big order. After this? There's a chance that—I'll go big time. At least big enough to employ some drivers full time. I won't have to run around and search them out for jobs. I can maybe—have a few trucks of my own? It's just—it was a really special delivery."

"Hit the big time, huh?" Daryl asked.

"Maybe," Carol said. "Probably. I hope."

Daryl chuckled.

"Now you back trackin'," he said. "Go back to whatever you was before. We got time—let's stop? I could piss and we'll—get a burger? Celebrate you goin' big?"

Carol considered it a moment, but she agreed to it before he had to signal that he intended to take the exit ahead of them. She was hungry. Neither of them had stopped for anything all day. And she could certainly use a bathroom break.

While they were out of the truck, stretching their legs and complying with laws that required such breaks, she might as well have a celebratory burger with Daryl Dixon.

"Stay there," he commanded as soon as he'd pulled the truck to a stop outside the little building that welcomed "their kind" more than other places did. She did as she was commanded and stayed in the seat, not quite sure if he was checking some thing or another on the rig—after all, that wasn't really her area. He surprised her, though, by coming around and swinging her door open.

"A gentleman?" She asked.

"Just for celebrations," he responded. "Don't get used to that shit."

Carol smiled to herself. She accepted, though she didn't need it, the help that he offered as she got down from her high perch.

Crunching across the gravel coated parking lot, toward the building that looked fairly clean to be a well-used truck stop, with Daryl just by her side, Carol couldn't help but continue to smile at her contemplation of how good life had the potential to be if this delivery did for her what she thought it might.

"So—if you start employin' people regular," Dary said, "you think—you might have room for me?"

Carol cleared her throat. She hummed at him and glanced back toward the truck. It was Merle's rig.

"I could," she said. "You and Merle. But—what would you drive?"

Daryl made a growling noise in his throat.

"Get me a big time boss lady, figure she might get me a rig," Daryl said. "If she was to come into all that—of course."

Carol smiled to herself.

"It could probably be arranged," she said. "Provided she were to come into all that."

"I reckon she just might," Daryl said.

And Carol smiled to herself again.

She might already have "Boss Bitch's Nightmare" regularly underfoot, but there was always room—if it worked out that way, of course—for "Boss Bitch's Dream". After all, her whole life these days was built on her dreams. There was always room for one more.


End file.
